A Hero's Choice
by PrettyUnteal
Summary: He's never chosen the right path, but he's certainly always chosen one that has made the journey more interesting. (Set between Fable II and Fable II. Mature situations and themes.)


**AN: So I've been super excited about my other story. Now that I've finished writing it and I'm revamping what's already done, I've been feeling stir crazy and wanting to go back into Fable a little bit. So here's the first chapter! I know it's a teaser but please let me know if you have any input so far. It's gonna be a pretty solid adventure romance and hopefully going to fit in with the whole Fable environment that I fell in love with.**

Chapter 1

His feet hit the ground, dust undoubtedly settling on the ends of his cream colored trousers, as his spine finally got the chance to straighten out. Reaver began walking before he'd flipped the coin not having to glance to see if the man had caught it- Reaver never missed.

The man was receptive of payment silently and was already bustling with the carriage behind him. It was an unassuming vessel, one not befitting of it's rider except when the rider needed to travel under a costume of sorts. There were few reasons that Seena would have demanded to see him as urgently as the letter had insisted, and all of which would require a certain amount of delicacy. The only help he'd brought along was there to navigate. As lightly as he longed to travel it was a significant distance, and they had been on the road for days. No sense not bringing along belongings, and therefore a carriage.

Reaver trusted his coachman with the belongings. A behavior as uncharacteristic as his carriage, but he'd known the man since the man was but a boy scraping at his boots. A fondness that he'd only built with time and a soothing amount of silence between the two. As callous as Reaver tended to be, some relationships in his garden were worth tending. That way he could trust these flowers and their fruits.

Though it took quite a while to rid himself of the dusty roads that Brightwood had to offer, the place was as _charming_ as possible...considering it was poor. If it wasn't for Seena, Reaver wouldn't have given it a second thought. But the man was truly incorrigible...with his thick hair and straight smile and all the warmth in the world. Yes, it was truly criminal how ever ounce of that charm could be communicated through letter. And so here Reaver was visiting an old friend who had surely gotten older since the last time he'd laid eyes on him. True, Seena had given up his reckless days of a pirate a long time ago, but the twinkle was still there, and so were the habits.

Seena was a hoarder. But in the most elegant and expensive way possible. Instead of collections of rocks or old portraits of scorned love interests, the man had an eye for the most peculiar of artifacts. On his most recent trip through Westcliff, there was apparently an item so rare it could not be spoken in letter. Hence the secrecy of Reaver's travels as well as the eager bounce in his step.

The house was familiar, Reaver knew of a different time when they had come back here with shared spoils of a raid instead of distinguished expeditions which were more often on both their plates. When he came around the side he'd already pictured Seena's face, lined with age that his boundless enthusiasm distracted from. Instead he saw an open door that was quickly taken advantage of.

"Make me come all the way here and then don't even come to greet me, you ripe peach?" Reaver shouted into the house, his dark eyes taken it over with an intensity that never truly left. "Why don't you come out here and give my sore ass a good rub, hm? Sheri won't mind, I'm sure." Speaking of the devil, Reaver looked toward Sheri's portrait that hung in all her sweet wisdom. The woman was one Reaver would have taken to bed for a _long_ while. Though even he must admit that she'd probably been better off with Seena. She had died nine years ago, though it didn't stop Seena from referring to the portrait often in conversation or asking playful permission. In truth, Sheri almost surely wouldn't mind her husband giving Reaver a good ass rub.

Offering a wink to the crystalline eyes, the Thief made his way past the foyer, looking for Quel or any house staff he had come to know. It was then that he made note of some very strange sound.

In an estate like this there was always someone cooking, cleaning, courting, celebrating or conked out on the sofa. But for now, there was silence. Were they all out?

But no... Reaver told the man exactly when to expect him. And once again, Reaver never missed. He was precisely on time, and was feeling a touch more put out that he'd not been rewarded for his good behavior. With a pout on his lips he swayed into the first room, just catching an image out of place in his peripheral vision. A hat... turned on its side in the middle of the hallway.

Immediately putting his hand on the Dragonstomper in its holster, Reaver's feet turned to the trained twinkle toes of any good hunter and he stalked down the hallway. He did not have time for the dread that coiled hard in his stomach and he instead focused on his silent steps down the hallway and peered into the room just enough to see that the hat had fallen from Quel's head...

Which currently lay on the floor several feet away from its body.

Immediately Reaver charged into the room, his ears more keenly become attuned the silence, only this time he recognized it for what it was. The emptiness of a body with no soul, the sound of death had been what greeted him but he hadn't been listening.

His gun trained proudly ahead of him though he felt every inside he had was quivering the the previously immobile dread. If the killer was still there then he would have no doubt already passed him down the hallway, but there was a chance he could be in one of the rooms of the small office library. It was the position of the body that made him sure he could still be inside. The hat was blown, the head rolled, as if the man had barley come through the door only to be decapitated by someone already in the room. If Reaver hadn't felt every bit of his skin prickling with the awareness of imminent danger he would have checked to see what was worth decapitating a man for.

If Reaver would have looked, maybe he wold have noticed the strangeness of the entry into the corpse's neck by his feet. Maybe he would have seen the dead veins creeping with purple or noticed the absence of blood in the body and on the ground. But instead his eyes were focused on the door ahead of him as a figure entered from behind. Silent as the rest of the house, the stranger raised his hand to the Hero's back and struck.


End file.
